I scramble back.
Back back back.
Feet catching on the underbrush, lungs heaving in and out, but I push myself up. And I run. My heart crashes in my ears, screaming at me not to slow down.
Run!
The ground rises up to meet me, legs tearing through the pines, through the brush and briars that grab at my skin, cutting me open. But I don’t feel any of it.
My hands tear through the trees, pulling me forward. I wasstupid to come here. My ears are ringing now, but I can still hear the men behind me, their footsteps, their shouts of pursuit. There is a pressure in my chest, my body like a drum, pounding, adrenaline sparking behind my eyes.
I can see the lake now, the water gleaming through the trees. I reach the edge of the forest, the campfire burning low in the distance, Noah and Cricket still asleep.
I’m almost there.
My legs stumble, but I don’t fall. I reach out for an oak, about to step into the open, onto the shore of the lake—but a hand seizes my shoulder, an arm around my throat, yanking me back.
I let out a scream, a deep, terrified shout, echoing into the tall, tall pines.
And then everything goes dark.
SEVEN
Iwake in a room.
Shadowy at first, but streams of dusty morning light break through thin slats in the windows, between wood boards that have been nailed into place.
The bottle of aspirin is gone from my coat pocket, but the worthless postcard remains, and I touch the back of my skull, wincing, my hair clotted with dried blood. They hit me over the head with something hard, a rock, the blunt end of a gun, and knocked me unconscious.
Slowly I push myself up from the floor.
My head spins, throbs, and I reach out for a wide table near one end of the room. There are other tables too, smaller ones with chairs pushed beneath them, running the length of the rectangular room. At the other end is a door.
I move quickly, my balance tilting wrongly to one side, little eruptions of light behind my eyes. I reach the door, hands against the wood, searching for the knob, but it’s been sheared off, gone. I throw my shoulder against the door, but it makes my head pulse and scream, and the door doesn’t budge. Not even a little.
It’s locked, or barred by something on the other side.
My breathing jagged, I turn back to face the room. There are no objects inside, nothing I could use to pry free any of the boards over the windows. Still, I stagger to the nearest window and wedge my fingers between two boards, trying to pull them loose, but they only creak, refusing to give way.
No way out.
I sink onto the floor beneath the window and close my eyes. The pounding in my skull making me feel like I might faint, the room scattered with tiny pin drops of light.
I shouldn’t have left our camp beside the lake.
I shouldn’t have gone into the trees.
I was reckless, stupid, and regret slams into my chest. A sinking, sickening feeling. Like rot gathering on wet wood. I wish I could take it back, but it’s too late now.
Hours pass. Perhaps a full day.
I sleep strangely, curled up behind the large table, hidden in case someone comes.
And someone does come.
When the slivered light through the windows is dull and pale—a sunrise or sunset, I can’t be sure which—a heavy sound echoes from the other side of the door. A moment later, it swings open, and a man steps into the room, silhouetted by the pastel light breaking around him.
The sickening fear presses against my ribs—whatever comes next probably won’t be good. These men have been chasing me for days,killed August and many others, and now they finally have me, captive, with nowhere to run.
